


Woven Memories

by Restitutor_Orbis



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, I torture Amayian a lot, M/M, Romance, Slow Burn, Smut, There is going to be some fluff, and then fluff, he is my son, so don't hate me y'all, then angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:02:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24781243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Restitutor_Orbis/pseuds/Restitutor_Orbis
Summary: Memories are born, and memories are forgotten, moments twining and unraveling; moments that are sweet, and others harsh. In the Dragon Age, these tender times become a flame that cuts through the darkness, though it is sometimes lost, forgotten. Amayian Trevelyan and Sister Leliana's flame has burned out. Do they dare try to rekindle that flame, or wander forever in the darkness.
Relationships: Blackwall | Thom Rainer/Female Cadash, Cullen Rutherford/Female Trevelyan, Dorian Pavus/Male Trevelyan, Female Adaar/Sera, Female Trevelyan/Female Tabris, Inquisitor/Leliana (Dragon Age), Iron Bull/Female Lavellan, Josephine Montilyet/Female Trevelyan, Male Inquisitor/Leliana (Dragon Age), Male Lavellan/Cassandra Pentaghast, Male Warden/Leliana (Formely), Morrigan/Male Warden (Dragon Age)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 6





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So, I'm doing a redo of my original fanfic Wandering the Drifting Road! Welcome to Woven Memories! Be worn, there is going to be a lot of angst and child abuse in the early chapters, so you can either stop reading or skip over those chapters! Your limits come before anything else! 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy it!

The horse stomped the earth with impatient hooves, shifting from one to the other with its kicks that sent dirt and dust flying. Esmarian could see a heavy gray, billowing mist comb over the vale, before descending like a rippling cloak at its feet. Hints of sunlight came as thin, cold wisps, and the sky was gray and thickly-strung with clouds. He could only see a few paces in front of him, the mist rolling and folding in on itself like steel. 

Drawing his reins near to his chest and tilting a little toward the right with his weight, he sent Dasor off into a trot back to Vasenarg. The path was hard underhoof, sturdy enough that Esmarian did not fear Dasor losing his step. It curved and twisted before rushing like a river into a shadowy forest where the mist still marched on, low enough to hide the earth beneath Dasor’s feet.

Long limbs of trees rustled with the soft breeze from the north. Singing lowly in his ears, Esmarian could only hear the wind in the air, cold and slick with a moisture that warned of rain. He trotted along the path in silence. Leaves crunched beneath Dasor’s hooves, moaning and groaning with each trample. It brought forth an eerily melody that he longed to be rid of. _Another rain-cursed night, no doubt._

He knew the path back to Vasenarg well. He had often wandered the forest when he had just been a boy of six, with his elder brothers. That had been before the war with Starkhaven, when Ostwick had allied themselves with Kirkwall - before when Lord Amayian of Vasenarg had three boys instead of two. Then, the forest had been washed with golden light and filled with vibrant greens. The earth had been soft enough that if one lost their footing climbing the child would be wrapped and left unharmed. 

But it had been a cold and hard winter in the thirteenth year of the Dragon Age. Not enough wheat and barely had been grown, and more than enough snow had fallen from the heavens in horrible white tears. Most had melted, burned away by the spring sun’s warmth. Yet, rains returned and mists formed and the world seemed tired once more. Not even a bird’s chirp cried out in the gloominess. Only grays and blacks colored the world that Esmarian knew - had since the day he held Abalian’s body in his arms. _Rhyis had only saw the ale before trotting away with his cold, dead excuses._ There were many things he could forgive his brother for, but not that. 

That had been over nineteen years ago, when their father still lord over House Trevelyan as its patriarch; when Rhyis had only just been named the Storm of Starkhaven. 

The forests thinned and then spread into a gloomy field of rolling hills marked with gray-green grass. Esmarian could hear the crashing of the Waking Sea’s waves against the jagged black shore. He tugged at the reins before resting it and his hands upon the leather saddle. He knew that he had faced westward, staring into the unknown toward Ostwick’s ally, Kirkwall. The mist lifted, though dim and unfailingly hid most of the world in its arms, and Esmarian could see Vasenarg, a mountain of carved and chiseled marble ice peeking from the white-gray shroud. A little northward, and he would have seen Ostwick. 

Once, his family had resided in the ancient city, but it had been nearly ages since any Trevelyan claimed the ancestral meadhall of Osthabern as their seat. Vasenarg had been built away from the city, but near enough to claim a large portion of its trade routes for House Trevelyan’s own - the ones that ran from Kirkwall and Starkhaven, at least. Esmarian was on one such path, though it was ancient and rarely used any longer, not since Ostwick had expanded southward and built a port at the feet of the Waking Sea. 

Sending Dasor into a canter, Esmarian rode over the ancient, near-forgotten path. The wind came open and free, whirling from the sky to slashed and pushed the heaving mist back and fro like children fighting over a toy. The breeze was soft, grazing across his touch with gentle fingers. He needed this, more than he expected. There was something sweet in the wind, a clearness in the air. Something he could not have in the buzzing halls of Vasenarg, less so in the streets of Ostwick. 

The wind swayed the grass, like rippling sheets of gray-flecked green. The salty air of the sea filled his senses and he inhaled softly, smiling as the breeze grew strong and swift, marching along with a whistle at its lips. The hills rose and fell in gentle slopes. A thin riverlet trinkled softly between two cradling mounds. He passed over it, water splashing and splattering, before climbing up a hill. The mist followed along as well, swathing across the meadows and valleys with its long, widening arms. 

It was a sorrowful and lonely rode to Vasenarg, as if the world was hushed to silence with the wind giving the eulogy of a bygone age, forgotten in the hearts of time and men. Rhyis hoped that summer would be a more plentiful revival—he had even visited the Grand Cleric to break fast and morning prayers—but Esmarian had doubts, stronger than he would like. _And Rhyis doesn’t even have a spare. If Ashania grew ill…_

Soft beats of warmth indicted midday, though he could not see the sun in the sky. Rolling clouds shrouded the world like a heavy cloak, bordering on darkness. Northward, he caught glimpses of a rigid arm of mountains blocking the horizon, tips cladded in shimmering silvery-white and stomachs darken like licking shadows. _The Vimmark Mountains._ It seemed to have been years past since Esmarian rode at the feet of the great mountains, towering and looming like a sharp, jagged castle. _To face Ser Elthbart, if I recall correctly. Maker, had it been that long?_

Shaking his head, he tugged at his reins toward the left before gently kicking Doser’s flanks, sending him off in a gallop. 

Mist swirled and churned like a veil of shimmering moonlight. It was thin enough for Esmarian to see the path at least. Enough for him to continue on his gallop with relative ease. Family belief held that Trevelyans were first given to the horse and then to their mothers after their birth. Esmarian had seen enough pregnancies to believe such rituals only occured on occasions, and typically for heirs of cadet branches. He had been disappointed when his mother had informed him that he was never given to such an honor. But he rode any horse as if they were his second - technically four - legs.

He laughed and kicked Dasor’s sides once more. The wind struck his cheeks, kissing and grazing, and he laughed harder. Esmarian never felt more alive then when he rode upon Dasor, wind in his hair and the rumbling of hooves meeting earth, bouncing him along. A song was formed, crafted, and he was the conductor.

The gatehouses glimmered faintly with the same paleness of freshly fallen snow. On silver poles stirred the rearing golden horse of House Trevelyan upon a black stable, flapping and weaving through the air. Vasenarg’s doubled-walled fortifications ran left and right, expanding like spread thick wings, and dipping with the fall of hills. Shouts and the clanging of metal rang loud as he rode into the lower bailey. 

A few dozen or so of his brother’s household guards trained with great and bastard swords. Faint glimmers of sunlight shone on the metal of their armor and blade. The mist was softer here, faint and thinned, as if Vasenarg washed out the darkness and coldness of the world when one passed through its gates. Orange-golden light burned bright on hung torches, enough to bring tears to Esmarian’s eyes. 

Wiping his face with a gloved-hand, Esmarian swung feet of the stirrup and dismounted.

_“Uncle Esmi!”_

Esmarian groaned as a weight slammed into his abdomen, knocking the breath out of him. “ _Ashania!”_ He managed to choke out. “Release me a bit, lass.”

The crushing of his sides were lessen and he inhaled sharply, capturing the air as if it was the smell of roasted mutton and freshly pressed bread. Glancing down, his gaze were met with large, almond-shaped purple eyes. _Rhyis’ eyes,_ he thought with a hint of a smile. 

The heir of Vasenarg was a girl of only three years, with curls of russet-brown hair falling like a waterfall, gleaming faintly with the flickering of the torchlight. Her pale cheeks were tinted with a rosy-red, hinting to her staying out in the cool day longer than she should have. But, Esmarian could not have been made at her. In everything but her eyes, Ashania Trevelyan was her mother’s daughter. She had the same russet-brown curls; the same rose-tinted cheeks and pale skin of House Mouguare of the Orlesian Empire. _Some of the family would had claimed bastardy if she had not been born with Rhyis’ eyes. She is too Orlesian in appearance._ Maker bless Rhyis with a child that had his black, wavy locks and olive-tan skin of House Trevelyan. _If not, than Jacqueline should be worried._

Ashania was still smiling, sweet and soft in the way only a child could. But, as if a bolt of lightning had struck her, she remembered her manners. She bowed low, dipping her feet and rising the edge of her dress a little high, and said, “Hello, Uncle.” 

Esmarian laughed and ruffled her curls with his hand, grinning down at her. “No need to be formal, love. I’m not Aunt Jaylia.” He winked, then bent down on his knee, wrapped his arms around her waist, and then rose her high into the air. “Where’s your father, lass?”

Her brows furrowed and her nose wrinkled. “Um, I don’t know.” She pouted, and her eyes grew glossy. Then, she gasped. “In the big room!” 

“Ah, yes, the big room.” Esmarian chuckled, shook his head, and then stode toward the great bronze doors of the keep. The big room was actually his brother’s study, and while one of the largest chambers in the castle, it was nowhere the largest. 

Two of the household guards, straight-faced and stern, stood at the entranceway of the keep. With a nod of greeting, Esmarian waited as they pushed open the ancient doors. Groaning softly, the doors fell open slowly, and Esmarian passed through with his niece in arms, the wind slapping against his cloaked-back. 

The great hall was silent, with only the soft patter of servants' feet bouncing off the walls. Light pooled and spread, scattering the shadows into hiding, and filled the warmed hall with a haze of orange and gold and crimson. He turned toward the right, gazed as darkness slipped and filled the wide hall. Smiling at Ashania, mumbled incoherent and insensible words, he stepped through. 

His brother was not in his study, he noted as he passed through its threshold, empty-handed. Ashania had wanted to go off and play with a sleeping cat; so much so that she had nearly tried to jump out of Esmarian’s arms and onto the stone floor below, which could have resulted in an injury—one that he was not willing to sacrifice his neck for. 

He found only Lady Jacqueline, seated near a window with its curtains thrown back. Bars of pale sunlight slanted through and splattered onto the floor in lengthened fingers. “My lady,” greeted Esmarian with a slight bow.

She was facing toward the window, humming softly, a hand resting upon her protruding stomach. “Lord Esmarian.” Jacqueliene did not turn to face him. “If you’re looking for Rhyis, he’s still sleeping.”

Esmarian grinned and raised an eyebrow. “Sleeping? That might not have to do with you, Lady Jacqueliene?” 

Jacqueline Trevelyan was as beautiful as a marble statue, with her long waves of russet-brown falling down to her mid-back and her large, almond-shaped green eyes flecked with gold. Her lips were soft and small, but full. Her cheeks were rose-tinted and freckled lightly, only able to see it when she was flush, which Esmarian found rare. _Only Rhyis seemed to make her flush, and even those were far and between._ Jacqueline smiled and laughed beatifically. “I have no idea what you are suggesting, my dear good-brother.” Her eyes twinkled with a mischievous glint. “My love works so hard and without any rest. I thought it would be merely good for him if he actually could attain one, even if it is for a single night.” 

“How’s the child?” asked Esmarian after chuckling for a few moments, eyeing the woman’s stomach with concern. Without Rhyis there to fret over the woman, it fell upon him to do so. 

Jacqueline sighed, irritated, as far as Esmarian could tell. “One rests and another takes it place.” She raised a hand to her brow, rubbing at her temples. “The babe is fine, I assure you, Esmarian. I would have summoned the healer if there were any problems.” She eyed him, a frown tugged at the corner of her lips. “You are far too like Rhyis at times.” Scoffing, Jacqueline laughed softly and rubbed her stomach, staring at it with gentle eyes. “Maker save him if he is cursed with two Rhyises.”

Esmarian blinked. “Him?”

“Oh, a mother’s intuition.”

“How do you know it is a he?” Esmarian never trusted the idea of the so-called “mother’s intuition.” _Rhyis said that Mother had been wrong about Abalian, and perhaps he was right on that._

“A dream I had, Esmarian.” Her voice was almost breathless—detached, remote, as if she was no longer truly there in mind. She returned her gaze back to the window, rubbing her stomach in fleeting circles. “A dream of a little boy with a shadowy crown and green eyes with the sun’s light in them, standing against a storm of fire and darkness, billowing, threatening to swallow the world in darkness.” 


	2. Chapter 1 - A Sea of Light

The visitors poured through the gate in a river of gold and silver with banners withering overhead; banners of gold and green; of silver and blue; of black and crimson. The banners of House Trevelyan danced upon poles of polished silver, waving in the wind high up in the ramparts. The golden steed of Trevelyan reared upon its black stable in defiance, proclaiming its command over all the earth that it may step its hooves upon.

But, Amayian saw, there were others like it as well. The purple-black checkered field emblazoned with the silver steed of Trevelyan-Hasburn from Wycome; the silver-blue quartered with the black steed and golden rose of Trevelyan-DŐrthar from Hercinia. Cousins upon cousins that Amayian did not even know existed, yet somehow bound by blood. The Trevelyans were a large family, his tutors often spoke of. One of the greatest houses in the Free Marches, spanning from the Trevalius in Minrathous to distant relations in Ferelden. Beside him, his younger brother, Rhyis, shifted on the balls of his feet, eagerness lighting his eyes and features. 

“Do you think Cousen Alexandra is with them?” asked Rhyis. The wind stirred his thick, wavy locks of russet-brown, falling like a crown of dark tendrils that framed his features. His face was soft, cheeks flushed with pink from the cold, and freckles dotted the bridge of his nose and splattered across the crimson and white skin. Like his sister, Ashania, Rhyis had their father’s eyes - violet that shone with a light which made them even brighter than Lord Rhyis’. He wore a black doublet, striped with trimmings of gold. A cape of golden-embroidered darkness tumbled down his slant shoulders, a white wolf’s fur trimming at its borders. It looked almost too big on him, but their mother, the Lady Jacqueline, had expressly instructed stern punishment was to be enacted on if she had seen his brother stripped of it. Even Amayian had been warned, and he had never been one to defy the will of the Orlesian matron.

Amayian pushed up on the tips of his toes, narrowing his eyes as they flickered from banner to banner, seeking for House Trevelyan-Dulaphin of Kirkwall. Sunlight sparkled like glittering beads and caused the white marble walls of Vasenarg to shone as if wrapped eternally in its golden embrace. The wind came soft and gentle and sweet, fresh morning dew dancing with the cool air. Despite his mother’s many worries, Amayian had doubted that either his brother, his sister, or himself would have caught any shivers. But there would have been no point in bringing that up to his mother. Uncle Esmarian had once jested that their mother had been Andraste herself, with the way she conducted herself in a very clean and stern matter, but caring nevertheless. Lady Jacqueline had not denied it.

“I don’t see it,” he whispered back, and turned to find his brother’s lips pulled into a pout. “She’ll be here soon, no doubt.” Amayian understood his brother’s disappointment. Even he was filled with a sense of it when the great sea of multi-hued banners were neither the one they searched for nor sought. Yet, a part of him knew that the Trevelyan-Dulaphins would not turn their noses to Lord Rhyis Trevelyan. No one could even do that, not even Uncle Maxalias. 

He tugged his cloak closer over his shoulders and hunched a little over, taking a soft breath. Without Alexandra’s presence, Amayian knew that this visit would not be a good one in any sort of manner. The bailey was soon filled with shining armor gleaming silver with scabbards clacking against metal-covered thighs. The sounds rang in his ears like thunder across a storm-filled sky. His fingers twitched and clawed at the soft texture of his cloak, and he wished he had the ability to disappear into the shadows, away from the rising tide of Templars who had blood connections to his family. 

A feeling pulled at his stomach, a heated flame that sought to escape from the confines of his body. It boiled his blood, seared and sizzled beneath his skin to make it feel like his flesh was shifting with burning water. A brittle, chilled hand clawed at his chest, hammering icy pains across his shoulders and down to his fingertips. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. A storm of fire and ice, flecked with lightning which crackled tendrils with the frosted hand. 

For the briefest of moments, only the sound of the wind was in his ears, tilted with the clacking scabbards against the armor of Templar family members. But he straightened himself, clamped his hands together and halted their trembling. His fears of the Templars were often abdicated with the knowledge that his father would protect him from any of their zealous actions. It did not keep the fear entirely at bay or subsided in any meaningful way. 

Though he did wanted to flee into the shadows, hide in the safety of his bedroom, but he did not. Instead, he shifted his heels, dug his feet into the softening mud, and stood his ground, like his father had. Hairs at the back of his neck prickled.

The sea of banners rode forward like an unsheathed blade, before spreading like colorful wings. The gates were spread wide, and the Trevelyan horde seemed to gush forward like a running river, Amayian worried that there would be no more room for any other visiting lords. It seemed to him that all of Thedas swarmed the bailey, like a buzzing hive of silver-gleaming swords and burnished armor of gold and copper and white, with clouds of purple and black and crimson and gold and emerald and azure whirling and whipping overhead. 

Glancing a little to his right, past his sister who wore a gown of white laced with gold, Lord Rhyis and Lady Jacqueline of Vasenarg stood erect and unmoving, like the like the gleaming walls of Vasenarg herself. Though, Amayian thought them more terrifying.

Lord Rhyis wore a black doublet with golden buttons flashing with pale light down the center. A cape as dark as his doublet cascaded down his broad-shoulders, like a river of darkness trickling down the face of a mountain. Little adorned it, besides the bear fur trimming across its shoulders and borders. His long, lushed black hair fell in raven waves, peppered with hints of gray. His features were sharp and chiseled, high cheekbones and a sharp jawline with a close-cropped beard covering his cheeks and jaw. His mouth was pulled tight and straight. He looked as if he was the Vismark Mountains staring down at the flowers of a meadow. A force greater than the bright colors of life. Amayian felt a sense of pride fill him. There was no other man as great as his father, Amayian was sured. That pride allowed himself to straightened his back and banished the tremble from his hands.

Lady Jacqueline stood as magnificent as his father appeared strong. Her long waves of the same brown that Ashania and Rhyis both had, tumbling in heavy locks, like a shuddering shroud framing her features. Hints of laughing lines adorned the sides of her golden-flecked green eyes, but her lips were frowning as tight as her father’s.  _ Mother dislikes it as well. _ That did not sit well in his stomach. 

The widening, colorful sea parted, leaving a road from the gatehouses to them. Then, Amayian saw the banner: two rearing, golden steads flaking a flame upon a black field stirred toward the west. The banners of House Trevelyan-Daluphin.  _ Uncle Maxalias is here _ . He leaned once more on his toes, nudging out his chin to see if he could catch the sight of the black wooden wheelhouse. At the head of the approaching entourage rode Lord Maxalias, a slim man with skin as pale as snow and thick black, wavy hair cut short. His nose was long, sharp, and straight. His purple eyes were a dark violet, speared with a deep, harsh blue, but on his lips was a soft smile - though it never reached his eyes. Lord Maxalias dressed in vivid colors of silk: a crimson coat and breeches, a creamy-white waistcoat lined with golden buttons. Across the coat’s shoulders, running down in floral patterns to trim at his cuffs, were golden embroidery. It seemed to practically shimmer beneath the light. Riding at a mere trot, Lord Maxalias looked as gallant on the horse as a knight from the tales. But a cold pressure weighed heavily on Amayian’s shoulders at the sight of him, and he fought a shiver. 

Behind Lord Maxalias rode the wheelhouse, which trembled and shook with every bump of a scattered pebble or risen earth. It was black, like the banners that wove through the air on the curtain walls. Golden paint covered the wooden’s corners, bringing out the black more so than the gold. But Amayian knew what hid in the hobbling carriage. The thought brought a semblance of a smile to his lips, and he clenched his cloak tighter to his chest. 

Turning, the wheelhouse came to an abrupt stop, heaving forward a little, before settling back with a low groan by the wooden axis and wheels. The clattering of a thousand voices silenced with the halt by the wheelhouse. Most of the Trevelyans had came by horse, embodying the ideal of their herealdly. Not even great-aunt Lucille had came with her wheelhouse, though the woman neared her fiftieth year.  _ Uncle Maxalias seems happy that he drew everyone’s attention, _ thought Amayian, glancing at his uncle and the door to the wheelhouse, expectedly. 

Lord Maxalias swung from his horse with swift elegance, landing with a soft bounce onto the earth. Spreading his arms wide, he turned on his heels, leaned back, and smiled brightly. His purple eyes caught the sunlight, softening the indigo to a paler blue, though they glimmered with mischievousness. “My beloved cousin, the Storm of Starkhaven.” He laughed merrily, but a chilled hand shrouded the bailey, and both feet and hooves of men and horses alike shifted.

Lord Rhyis neither shifted nor gave any indication that he was pleased at the sight of his cousin. Instead, his mouth tightened, the wind fluttering his hair back. His father’s eyes narrowed, the Lord of Vasenarg said, “Maxalias.” He did not offer his hand. 

Uncle Maxalias’ smile did not falter for a moment, but something flashed in his eyes which hurled Amayian’s stomach, a glint of sharp ice that made his paling eyes paler and colder. Turning his gaze away, they landed upon Amayian’s mother, who was as straight-backed as his father. “Jacqueline, as beautiful as ever.”

Her mother merely inclined her head for a moment or two. “Lord Maxalias.” The title on her lips was harsh and filled with disgust that even his mother could not hide. 

The door to the wheelhouse swung gently open, pulled back by a foot soldier in silver armor and green cloths and brown leather. His shortsword hung in a scabbard plain and worn, and the silver of the guard glimmered faintly beneath the light when it caught it. But Amayian could not see his face, even when he turned to stand flat against the wheelhouse, door handle in hand. His face seemed entirely made of shifting shadows, but a pair of golden-hazel eyes burned with a calm and serenity.  _ Kyal.  _ A golden-hazel eye winked when it caught Amayian staring, but quickly returned to gaze off in the distance. 

A woman stepped down, garbed in a dress of emerald green satin laced with intertwining vines across the corset and sleeves, which draped with sheer, translucent cloth toward the ground. Her long hair was a mane of wavy locks and of a rich deep brown, framing a square-jaw, with soft cheeks tinted with a hint of rose. Golden-green eyes peeked out beneath long, black lashes, twinkling. A smile danced upon full, small lips. 

_ Aunt Amélie, _ he thought, watching as she slipped one of her hands into the other. His mother’s younger sister. Lady Jacqueline and Lady Amélie were both daughters of the House of Talayene, an old cadet branch that had split when one of Amayian’s many ancestors married into an Orlesian house with a sickly lord as her husband. He had died, and his wife had taken command as the matron of the household, installing her son as the new lord and declaring the House of Du Valus to be renamed the House of Talayene. Ever since then, Amayian been told, his family had a strong influence in the northwestern parts of the Orlesian Empire. Sizable enough for them to claim the title of Dukes. Enough to catch the eye of the Storm of Starkhaven. 

“My dearest, eldest sister,” said Aunt Amélie, pulling the sides of her dress up, crossed her legs, and knelt a little to the earth in a humble. She then brought Amayian’s mother into a warm hug, kiss both cheeks, and cupped them with gloved hands. “Why don’t you smile? It's been years since I last saw you do so.” Glancing at Father, Aunt Amélie’s eyes were frosty and narrowed to slits. She leaned close, whispering something in his mother’s ear. Something which caused Lady Jacqueline’s shoulders to tremble with laughter. Amayian shifted to side to side on the heels of his feet. His Uncle had warned him to be wary when he saw Trevelyan woman interluding with one another. But it did not seem entirely too bad. It had gotten his mother to laugh, and that was what mattered, did it not? 

His mother and father spoke in soft words with Uncle Maxalias and Aunt Amélie, leaning together in a huddle as the bailey was continued to be filled with the sounds of laughter and chatter, and Amayian was slowly believing that the entire world was streaming through Vasenarg’s gatehouse to clog the castle. 

Rhyis whimpered in disappointment and poorly hidden annoyance. His fists were balled into tiny fists, bottom lipped pumped out into a pout, and his cheeks flushed bright red. Wrapping an arm around his shoulders, Amayian pulled him into a hug, his own dread tugging at his stomach.  _ Did they leave her back at Kűrgaz? _ Instead of letting himself reveal that dread, Amayian smiled and kissed the top of his little brother’s head. “Don’t worry,” he whispered. “We’ll see her next time Uncle Maxalias and Aunt Amélie visit.” He did not think that he sounded as assured as he would have liked, but his brother seemed to have bought it well enough. Sniffing, the pout his brother had worn retreated a bit and he pressed his face flushed against the silk of Amayian’s doublet. 

Then, the wheelhouse creaked once more, and a shadow slipped down from the doorway, landing with a slight jump onto the earth. Black, billowing curls trembled in thick waves by the wind which came eastward. A small, childish smile played at her lips, and large, almond-shaped green eyes, speckled with gold, shimmered like light spearing through evergreen trees. His cousin stood only a little taller than him, with a soft face and rosy cheeks. She had her mother’s eyes, but her glimmered more green than gold, as if the sun dripped pools of light into a meadow dancing with flourishing grass. 

Rhyis untangled himself from Amayian’s waist and lunged forward, draping his arms tight around their cousin’s neck with enough force that Amayian was sure he thought his cousin lost her breath. But, instead, she merely giggled and wrapped an arm around Rhyis’ waist, a lopsided grin plastering her features. “Hello, little cousin,” she laughed, with a voice as sweet as summer air. 

Alexandra Trevelyan was always the sunlight at the soirees his siblings and Amayian were forced to attend, a shatterer of darkness as boredom from which would have slowly settled on them with time’s slow crawl. She knew how to make Amayian laugh, and with a mind that matched Ashania, she shown as a beacon, a symbol of what a Trevelyan ought to be, even if she was little more than a year older than Amayian was. 

Aunt Amélie’s voice broke the joy like a howl from a wolf. “ _ Alexandra _ ,” she said shrilly, “greet your aunt and uncle. It is unbecoming of a lady.” Her lips were thinned, jaw set tight, and Amayian watched as his cousin’s cheeks flushed the brightest of red. 

Hesitatingly, Alexandra released Rhyis, whom pouted and crossed his arms over his chest with a huff. Mother sent a dark, but not unkind, look toward her youngest child, and spread out an arm, combing her fingers as an offering. Rhyis took it, and slipped to nuzzle his face against the skirt of Lady Jacqueline’s dress. Amayian noticed the smile forming at his mother’s lips.

Alexandra curtsied with only the slightest mistakes, and rose to clasp her hands at the front of her dress, like her own mother. She smiled up at Amayian’s mother and father. “Greetings, Uncle Rhyis, Aunt Jacqueline.” Her words came strong and vibrant, unlike the softness of a lay sister or the Revered Mother when uttering prayers in the chantry. But she seemed to whittle beneath the gaze of her mother and father, and brought her own stare to rest at his parents’ feet. 

It was his mother who saved his cousin from inflaming her cheeks with crimson. She knelt down, fingers raking through Esmyial’s wavy locks, and pressed a kiss to Alexandra’s forehead, pulling back with a smile. “It is good to see you again, Alexandra. Maker, you’ve grown. You’re almost up to my stomach.” She laughed and rustled Alexandra’s hair, who pouted, puffed, and soon joined in with the laughter. Amayian felt a smile blossom on his lips. Rising from her bent position, Jacqueline Trevelyan notched an eyebrow. “Where is little Malanias?”

“Alas, we were forced to leave Malanias at Kűrgaz with our other servants.” Uncle Maxalias shook his head, sighing, as if that was the most disappointing news in the world.

Father spoke, and when he did, Amayian jumped at its sudden arrival, like a clap of thunder from a storm that seemed to have ended. “Then let the Maker preserve him.” 

Amayian’s mother followed suit, tilting her head in a soft bow, the words uttered gentle and not loud enough to be heard, but he knew what she said well enough. Ashania brought her hands to her lips, cupped together, eyes closed, and by that point Amayian was compelled as well. Malanias was only two years old, but even Amayian saw that the boy had little in him to survive. It had hurt his heart to see him so thin and small. The babe smiled and laughed easily, even with the shadow of death crawling over him. The Chants gave a soft, warm beat to follow in his blood and quieted an uneasiness which lingered unexpectedly on his chest. When he lifted his eyes, the sun glowed warmer, somehow. 

“Thank you, Uncle Rhyis,” said Alexandra chirply, and the wind eased into a soft breeze to allow her hair to finally settled about her shoulders, like a rippling curtain of darkness. 

For a moment, his father seemed to smile, but it disappeared as swiftly as it came. He turned to Uncle Maxalias, who’s smile never waved, not once. “Ashania, Amayian. Take your cousin with you to one of your bedchambers. I’ll send the others to you once they arrive and I greet them.”

Ashania and Amayian bowed, and the wind curled up, splattering his cloak behind him in a hard whip. His sister smiled, nodded, and said, “Yes, Father.” She entwined her arm with Alexandra’s, and nearly dragged her along with a light skip to her step. Rhyis soon followed in a run, nearly tumbling to the ground. He steadied himself and continued on, laughing. The guards at the keep’s bronze doors pushed the open with a loud creak which was drowned out by the chatter. 

He glanced up at his father, and bowed once more to his uncle, aunt, mother, and father in silence. “My lord,” he whispered, “my lady.” His uncle and aunt smiled, though they did not reach their eyes. They were cold, distant, detached, though Aunt Amélie seemed warmer - only a touch, however. 

Father merely nodded. “Go on.” His voice seemed softer than before. His mother ruffled his hair and laid a kiss to his forehead and smiled. 

The sounds of the Trevelyans grew fainter as Amayian walked up the marble stairs, the echo pounding in his ears, and weakened the laughter and the prattle. It sounded like drums in his ears, and the hallway was casted in faint balls of orange and gold, seemingly bouncing in the air as darkness seeped. With trembling hands, he stepped through the threshold into Vasenarg’s great, black maw. 


End file.
